


Knowledge

by playswithworms



Series: Protectobot Beginnings [12]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had wanted to give them at least a semblance of a normal upbringing, but the Protectobots, it seemed, had other ideas.  Wheeljack is a little stressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting some older writings, as the spirit moves me. This one was first posted in January 2009.

It was early morning when Wheeljack spoke to Ratchet, as measured by the swift-turning nameless planet where the Protectobots were hidden away. The namelessness, the total lack of anything unique or interesting or remotely valuable about the planet was their only protection, as Wheeljack and a few others guided the second Autobot gestalt team through the early stages of their development and training. Or frantically scrambled behind them, trying to keep up as they devoured every datapad and mastered every skill at breakneck speed, Wheeljack thought a little desperately. 

“Ratchet, I can’t keep up with them! Five of them, Ratchet, and now that Perceptor’s gone back I don’t know what I’m going to do with Streetwise. They’ve already completed every training level we had prepared and they’re clamoring for more; I’m just pulling things out of my exhaust pipe at this point. And if we don’t give First Aid some real patients soon, he’s going to start dismantling himself for the practice. I caught him bandaging a rock formation the other day!” 

“A rock formation? Primus, Wheeljack…maybe you should scan his CPU.” 

“Well, to be fair it did look a lot like Grapple with a damaged arm, but still…is there anything you can do on your end? They just want so badly to be useful. Wind, water and rock, that’s all we have here, and it’s not enough for them.” 

“Optimus is adamant, Wheeljack, you know that, and I agree with him. They may be clever, but developmentally they’re still sparklings. They’re not ready to be in a war.” 

“I know Ratch, I know. And after seeing what happened to the mining colony…” Wheeljack trailed off. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said after awhile. “I know they’re too young, but…at the same time, I feel like we’re not being fair to them, keeping them here.” 

Ratchet sighed, the sound full of static through their heavily encrypted transmission. He had seen footage from the slaughter of the mining colony as well. He hadn’t been able to watch all of it. “Things have been fairly quiet around here for a change. I’ll see if I can get out there for a little while anyway, help you out, if Prowl doesn’t think it will be too much of a security risk. I don’t want First Aid learning bad habits from you that he’ll just have to unlearn later,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood. 

“Bad habits!” Wheeljack protested, “My patients do just fine Ratch.” 

“Oh sure they do ‘Jack,” Ratchet teased, “but not everyone wants to go in for a basic joint repair and end up with a three-way disrupter shield instead of an arm. Oh, by the way, Slingshot was in here the other day, moping. He wouldn’t tell me what about, but I think he misses you. They all do.” 

“Aw, I miss them too. I wonder what they’ll make of the new guys here. I kinda think Hot Spot and Silverbolt would hit it off. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. They merged yesterday. That was the whole reason I called you actually.” 

“Merged…what? Wheeljack, are you saying they’ve already formed their combined unit?” 

“Just for a few moments. Apparently they did it during zero gravity training. I didn’t get to see it, but yes, it was a successful complete merge. It must have been completely instinctive because we haven’t even touched on that part of their training yet.” Wheeljack’s voice was calm, but Ratchet could practically feel him bouncing with glee through the static-filled transmission. 

“’Jack…that’s incredible. You really weren’t kidding about keeping up with them, were you. What…do you know his name?” 

“Defensor. Appropriate yes?” 

“Defensor. Not bad. Do you want me to tell Optimus and Prowl, or do you want to tell them yourself?”  

“Ah, let’s hold off on telling them just yet. Defensor was only online for a few kliks, and they haven’t been able to repeat it. Whenever they try they can’t stop laughing for some reason, but Ratchet, whatever this bunch gets in their processors to do, they do it. I don’t think we’re going to be able to hold them back much longer.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Wheeljack remembered that conversation later in the day, when he managed to get Hot Spot to pause long enough to take a cube of energon. The constant winds that blew across the planet had died down to a mere stiff breeze, and the rest of the team was out practicing their tracking skills by searching for Ironhide, who was hiding somewhere in the rocky crevices nearby. From the excited shouts echoing faintly down the hillside it sounded like they had found him, and Wheeljack smiled. 

They had been told there was a war. They knew there was fighting, that mechs were hurt, torn from homes and loved ones, sometimes killed. Wheeljack had told them they were built to help. Rescue and protect, mend the damaged, rebuild what was broken, but beyond that they had been given no more details, not even when Hot Spot tried again to wheedle it out of him. 

“This existing is great and all, Wheeljack, but when do we actually get to do something?” 

“Do something! What, is the training schedule still not busy enough for you? What are you trying to do, kid, burn out my circuits?” 

“Don’t say that around First Aid; he’ll try to replace them for you,” Hot Spot laughed. “Wheeljack, you know what I mean.” 

“It’s war, Hot Spot. Autobots do not send sparklings to war.” 

“You need us. You said ‘bots were dying, Wheeljack. We want to help.” 

Wheeljack looked at him, innocent and eager, and completely unaware. Hot Spot knew the words, that was all. Death. War. Battle. He didn’t know what he was asking. 

Hot Spot sighed at whatever he saw in Wheeljack’s expression, and then hugged the engineer close for a moment, including him in the same warm affection he extended to his gestalt mates. “You’ve given us so much, Wheeljack, and I don’t want you to think we’re not grateful. We just…we just want to give something back.” 

“You’ll get your chance, kiddo,” Wheeljack told him, reaching up to tap him fondly on the helm. “You haven’t even reached your first vorn yet, just be patient. You guys are gonna be great.” 

They both looked up to the whir of a helicopter overhead. Blades barely had to fight the wind as he deposited Ironhide neatly next to the pair and transformed. 

“Saved him!” Blades announced brightly, and Ironhide chuckled, brushing rock dust off of his shoulders. “What’s next, Wheeljack?” Blades asked, looking at him expectantly. 

“Next? You weren’t supposed to find him for another joor! I thought you could hide better than that, Ironhide.” 

“Got dust in my intakes, what can I say? I sneezed.” 

Hot Spot was looking at Ironhide, a contemplative expression on his face. “Dust huh?” he asked. 

Ironhide nodded, looking vaguely suspicious as Blades and Hot Spot grinned at each other. 

“I think he’s in need of a bath then, wouldn’t you say, Blades?” 

“Water rescue!” Blades crowed, as Hot Spot hauled Ironhide up over one shoulder and began tromping down the trail to the freshwater ocean shore below them. Ironhide was struggling half-heartedly, but the look he gave Wheeljack was mirthfully resigned. 

Wheeljack was glad to see Ironhide enjoying himself, even though he knew most of it was a front for the sake of the Protectobots. The vids from the mining colony had been deeply disturbing for both of them, but Ironhide had known many of the mechs who had died there. From Hot Spot’s questioning today, and a few concerned glances he had intercepted when they thought he wasn’t watching, he had a feeling they weren’t fooling the Protectobots entirely, but there was no need to burden their sparks with that sort of knowledge. Not yet. 

“Good luck!” he called, waving after them. Wheeljack felt a pang of sorrow. They would not be able to shelter the Protectobots much longer, no matter what Optimus or Ratchet might think. They hadn’t seen them, worked with them on a daily basis like Wheeljack had. He dodged to the side as the other three came barreling down the hillside above, First Aid trailing a little behind. 

“Water rescue!” “Hi Wheeljack!” Groove and Streetwise yelled as they careened by in their alt modes. 

First Aid, not built for speed like his brothers, transformed and tugged Wheeljack’s hand. “Wheeljack, come on,” he urged a little breathlessly, laughing. “We have to save Ironhide again!” 

He really needed to invent some way to bottle this energy, this joyous enthusiasm, Wheeljack thought, as he found himself running full tilt down to the water behind First Aid. Some sort of Protectobot to energon converter. The Decepticons would never know what hit them; they would suddenly wake up one recharge cycle and find themselves building cities instead of tearing them down. 

Later they dried out on the smooth flat rocks along the shoreline, the last rays of the hot blue sun leaving them pleasantly warm. The sky was clear tonight, a rare treat, and the first bright stars were making an appearance overhead. Wheeljack wished again that Perceptor was still here, as Streetwise quizzed him on the various star systems and Ironhide taught the other four a new song. It was a marching song, sung in a round, and the wind caught Hot Spot’s ringing, slightly off-key voice and whipped it around, carrying it up to the stars. 

“Over there, past that bright one, that’s Cybertron, right Wheeljack? Even though we can’t see it?” Streetwise asked. 

“Yes,” Wheeljack answered, and Streetwise looked away from the sky to grin at him, his optics glowing in the dimness like two bright stars themselves. “That’s Cybertron.”

 

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wheeljack recharged late the next day. It was mid-morning, by the angle of light coming through his window, and he was pleasantly surprised that the Protectobots had let him sleep so long. They wouldn’t disturb him directly if he was resting of course; they were a polite bunch, but somehow their relentless drive seemed to filter through his door in the mornings, making any sort of lazy lying around rather unappealing. 

Even though his recharge programs had been reset to the shorter rhythms of this planet’s daily rotation, his processor still thought it was on Cybertron and wouldn’t have minded another half joor of rest, but Wheeljack remembered with sudden guilt that he had promised Hot Spot they would go over some gestalt merge theory and schematics this morning. He had to dig a bit to find his notes, as he hadn’t planned on covering merge theory for another three or four vorns. 

A vague uneasiness tugged at him as he headed towards the classroom and training arena. It was so quiet. Not that they were always noisy; give the Protectobots a stack of datapads and they would happily read and download for joors on end, but the silence now seemed almost eerie. Ironhide’s door was still closed. Hot Spot and company had worn him out yesterday. That was probably a good thing, kept him from brooding over the miners, and Wheeljack wondered if they had done it on purpose. 

Grapple was alone in the classroom, looking over some design schematics. It would be nice if the schematics were for an upcoming lesson plan for the Protectobots rather than some grand project to rebuild Cybertron, but Wheeljack was not optimistic. Grapple claimed he had already covered everything he could without having more materials available. 

“No, I haven’t seen them, Wheeljack,” Grapple said, looking surprised at Wheeljack’s question. “I thought they were all out with Ironhide again.” 

 _Hot Spot, where are you guys?_ Wheeljack sent out a comm. 

 _Wheeljack…_ Hot Spot paused for a long moment, and Wheeljack felt the uneasy stir again. _We’re in our quarters._  

Wheeljack found himself striding rapidly toward the rooms where the Protectobots recharged. _I’m on my way, Hot Spot_. He wasn’t sure how he knew it from those few words; maybe the Protectobots had simply recharged late as well, but his spark wasn’t buying that explanation. Something was not right. 

They were grouped close together on the floor of their quarters. Not unusual. They often sprawled comfortably on the floor with all the limberness of the newly constructed, completely ignoring perfectly good berths and chairs. Their quarters were cluttered with datapads and bits and pieces of various projects, also nothing unusual. (“What’s the fun of cleaning something up, if you don’t let it get good and messy first?” Hot Spot would say, and when some mysterious tipping point was reached, they would all spring into a jubilant frenzy of cleaning and organization.) 

They were just…very quiet. Subdued, sitting there, leaning on one another as if exhausted. Even Streetwise was motionless, looking up at him with optics that seemed dimmed and muted. Were they sick? Wheeljack wondered in sudden alarm. With the small number of mechs here they weren’t likely to pick up any viruses, but maybe something on the planet, something they had overlooked…Wheeljack knelt down next to Streetwise and felt his face, but he didn’t seem overheated. 

“I didn’t mean to, Wheeljack. I’m sorry,” Streetwise told him sorrowfully, leaning in to his hand a little bit. 

“Didn’t mean to what, kiddo?” Wheeljack knuckled him gently on the helm. It wasn’t right, for Streetwise to look so sad. 

“You didn’t mean for us to see it, but I found it,” he said, looking a little guilty as he indicated a holo vid on the floor next to them. “Ironhide left it out.” Wheeljack recognized it. Of course Streetwise would be the one to find it.   If there was the slightest scrap of information to find, Streetwise would sniff it out, like Hound on a trail. And what Streetwise knew, Hot Spot knew, and from there…well, gestalts weren’t designed for keeping secrets. 

The footage had been…graphic, to say the least. No wonder. No wonder they looked like they’d been to the Pit and back, Wheeljack thought. He met Hot Spot’s optics, steady as always, but full now of the terrible things he had seen in the vid, and Wheeljack felt his spark break for them. Yes, he had contemplated giving them more information someday soon, in a way that their developing processors could handle, but…not like this. How was this going to affect them? Groove, First Aid, the two gentle ones. Groove hadn’t even looked up when Wheeljack entered. His optics were downcast, and he seemed very far away despite Blades’ arms wrapped tightly around him. First Aid…Primus, the youngster fussed over broken energon dispensers like they were his own teammates, and he wouldn’t even pick up a rifle after that first time. How was he going to handle the sight of mechs torn limb from limb, screaming as they were thrown still alive into smelting pits? 

First Aid was looking up at Hot Spot now, his face calm, unreadable. Hot Spot looked down at him, asking a wordless question and First Aid answering. Groove stirred and turned his head to watch them and then Hot Spot lifted his head. As one they moved, all five, and Wheeljack moved back a little from the click-whirr-rush of transformation. Defensor raised his head from where he half-crouched, and Wheeljack could not suppress a thrill of wonder as he met the gestalt’s determined newborn gaze. In a voice that would not be gainsayed, Defensor spoke. 

“Wheeljack, let me help.” 

Defensor shifted, broke apart, and they were five again, all looking at him, optics unwavering. 

“Wheeljack,” Hot Spot said. 

Ratchet was going to dismantle him, slowly, Wheeljack thought, but Primus help him he could not deny them. 

“I’ll call Optimus.”

 


End file.
